The RS’s sole virtue was that it could be hurled around London at a great pace, otherwise it was totally inadequate. A Plastic Maggot or BMW must be the best choice, providing they’re in good nick, but I went for a Yamaha XJ550, bought in a thoroughly unorthodox manner: i.e. on impulse.
Fluorescent orange wheels, growling Laser exhaust, 2-4 seat and death-grip brakes for 525 quid seemed like a reasonable piece of action for the money. The owner tried to blow my mind as a pillion but only succeeded in blowing my eardrums thanks to decibel overload from an exhaust note that had one scanning the horizon in expectation of hundreds of blue flashing lights in rapid pursuit. Having recovered from trying to hang on without a grab rail, nearly tearing the seat off against furious braking, I exchanged borrowed cash for a key and two logbooks, for some reason.
Red-lining in every gear was a truly fascinating experience. So much so, that I nearly got splatted on the way home whilst overtaking on double white lines around a blind bend; three seconds later and it would’ve been finito. The headlamp also caused grief by being impertinent enough to suddenly eclipse itself for a few precious moments but it was a full moon, so no blood was shed.
I decided it was necessary to establish top whack when the Northern bypass, or flypass, was reached. Once over the ton I became astonished at the rate at which the landscape was flying past. The bike tracked in a perfectly straight line but bounced up and down on the rigid rear shocks as if on a trampoline, thus causing the keys to leap out of the ignition; a less than amusing revelation. After back tracking for ten miles, I resigned myself to being locked out until I noticed them hanging from the steering damper.
Once despatching the bike proved itself to be verging on the unrideable. With an open exhaust, a product of surgery caused by the advice that the exhaust otherwise caused burnt out exhaust valves, the rigid rear shock, appalling fuel consumption due to badly set up carbs, and a burnt out battery that meant the brute had to be shunted up a hill and then bumped down when the engine was cold, made the bike a nightmarish liability.
The obvious solution was to spend some money and time, but I was too lazy and it went against my principles at the time. Eventually, an air box with a large cut in it was bought COD from a con man breaker. It was so tight a fit that I nearly smashed the thing up with a nearby sledge-hammer, but it fell over first, flattening a rather elegant indicator. The clutch cable became gunged up, at one stage, thus postponing forward momentum for valuable seconds until it released itself. This was particularly precarious when taking off at roundabouts, when one got stranded in the middle of the thoroughfare with no go. I had to throw the bike past fast moving cars until the recalcitrant cable returned to its proper place.
I bought a Motad N-Eta at a traffic light in London, off a DR who became distressed by the colossal noise emission. This £40 piece of equipment was in very good condition but took several months work to get a good seal at the head. No longer could I clear streets full of peds by wielding the bike on one wheel well and truly in the power band, No longer could car drivers be intimidated into letting the madly screaming beast through in tight traffic, and, even more annoying, I began to be stopped by the police with disturbing regularity.
The first time occurred when cruising past a police car on the M25 at 75mph. At least that was what I assumed the speed to be as the speedo drive had self-destructed on one memorable, out of control, occasion, several weeks earlier. The officer was not too appreciative of the absence of tax, headlight (it was dark), bent forks that leaked (due to an intimate encounter with a small Volvo), oil leak and the way the bike rolled forward when the brakes were fully applied. However, the bike had a brand new Metzeler on the front wheel, bought after the previous one blew out in Oxford St., which I felt compensated for the worn components when accompanied by my sob story which depicted me as having purchased the bike only a few days before and gradually uncovering the faults and coming to terms with the fact that I had been ripped off.
I was let off with a stern warning to go to the next garage and buy a bulb or two. Instead, I called the AA, got fed up waiting and carried on, along the blocked solid M25 with indicators flashing until a GPz900 guided me to a garage in Crawley at a furious pace. Then I got a £12 fine for riding down a no vehicle street, lucky they didn’t spot the ice-axe hole in the open face. This nearly occurred again but I had spotted them first, neatly turning around 50 yards from the enemy and then running out of petrol just around the corner.
In 15000 miles the oil was changed every 1000 miles, but the shims, carbs and oil filter left to their own devices. Chain and sprockets were replaced when all the teeth broke off on the motorway. We raced an XR2 flat out and won, just, but couldn't overtake a madly wheelie-ing VT500 in an 8 mile, ton-up back road, footpeg scraping race. After riding through a keep left sign which was unlit, damaging the exhaust, I decided to take a holiday and give winter a miss.
Having accumulated 1000 notes it had to be somewhere cheap for the amount of time I wanted to spend dossing around, and being the world’s most enthusiastic fan of the UMG, slurp, Thailand was the only choice. Huge nurses and needles have faded into the depths of a blurred, miserable memory and the cost of travel insurance can be offset by the outrageous claims you can make on returning. After all this suffering, I just had to take the XJ on one final burn up, having anticipated about two months of motorcycling abstinence and horrific withdrawal symptoms. She performed admirably, raising her front wheel in salutation to passer-bys in a very friendly manner and tested the brave pillion’s grip to the full. She was then given a paltry wash and left spewing out oil, ticking and steaming under a most dignified blanket.
Once in Bangkok, it seemed the road conditions would make the roughest, toughest, meanest DR veteran quake in his Frank Thomas’s and collapse in a hysterical fit. Crossing the street was only for the brave thanks to 12 lane dual carriageways swarming with murderous hordes of Japanese small fry. Sadists hang out at the airport on flash 125s offering to take bleary eyed tourists into town for a small fee, a fate that'll leave the victim’s eyes bulging out cf their sockets for weeks to come.
One night in Bangkok, as the song goes, was quite sufficient to necessitate several weeks of complete rest and recovery in the sun. Having gone for the cheapest possible accommodation, one was subjected to the drug induced ravings of strange tourists which appeared to amuse the resident rats judging by the way they ran wildly over the furnishings.
Salvation was found on an island where, if you play your cards right, you can acquire a beach bungalow 15ft from a gorgeous sea on a fantastic beach near to a restaurant that provided superb nosh and just about any mind warping substance you'd care to mention. What’s more, you can hire motorcycles from these places, namely a Honda 100, a vehicle that could reach the dizzy precipice of 50mph, a not inconsiderable speed when helmetless. However, it was inept at navigating fast bends and the numerous sandy trails.
An enormous Buddha statue was selected as the ideal site, as not only was it frequented by hordes of tourists but we could also annoy the monks. First on the agenda were broadies and 5oft skids followed by monstrous wheelies easily attained by full throttle whilst pulling the bars back and up. The tour de force were multiple doughnuts in front of a curious Japanese tour bus thus spewing up huge quantities of dust and sand upon all in the vicinity of the near horizontal, demented sewing machine.
However, glory was short lived. The strain on my companion’s bald rear tyre after being continually locked up, so as to make ear wrenching screaming noises, ended in the tyre’s violent, explosive demise. It was thrown in the back of a pickup the next day, not without a more than nominal charge, of course, and returned to its none too ecstatic owner. From then on, the more comfortable, faster and trail-able MTX125s were hired for £4 a day. If staying on this island for a really outrageously long time, it would be worth bringing along some ultra sticky Metzeler knobblies, it might even make the custom Official’s day.
In the peak season, at least one farang meets his or her maker every day, probably as the result of maniacal taxi drivers, nasty gravel strewn bends and lots of plain bad riding. I myself witnessed incompetence at its most dire at uncomfortably close quarters, when acting as pillion cum rear gunner on a three up C90. Navigating an evil right hander after taking in a disco, the Australian girl pilot communicated a distinct lack of confidence towards successful negotiation of the bend, to both second Aussie girl and myself, resulting in us prematurely evacuating the doomed vessel, leaving the pilot to face the music and gravel rash. We treated the cuts with my superb medical kit, using all sort of antiseptic and sterilised bandages. However, in three days the wound had turned a nauseous green and the hospital informed her that if she’d waited another day she would’ve had gangrene resulting in the loss of a leg.
Stray, stoned, rabid looking dogs were my personal phobia. These crazed monsters would chase you up the street, snapping at your heels, or more often lay unconscious on the unlit highway in the hours of darkness. Sometimes they would meaningfully saunter out into one’s inebriated path, resulting in much panic and swerving. On one occasion a two up C90 ran over a dog that stepped out in front of it, apparently on purpose, the enraged beast then sprang to its bruised haunches and took up the chase with two of its equally mangy companions. I only hope they could afford the rabies injections.
Riding up into the hills on trail bikes was really mind blowing fun. When encountering big snakes and spiders one either turned up the gas standing on the seat or turned around. The natives, armed with machetes and Spanish civil war rifles, had to be treated with much respect and cheery waves as you inevitably had to pass them on the way back. Some were (probably quite justifiably) resentful of tourists. We once ventured into the undergrowth at night on the MTXs with the absurd intention of traversing across the island with only a drop of petrol (which is red, incidentally) in the tanks. We skidded and swerved our way through very dubious looking plantation and quickly developed paranoia about falling coconuts and trigger happy land owners who we later found out don’t welcome nocturnal ramblings - and shoot first.
All too soon it was time to move on to the north of Thailand, to check out the bizarre Songkran water festival. First, however, it was necessary to visit the hill tribes. A bus ride to Chaing Rai preceded the hire of better condition MTXs which were a far more relaxed method of trailing up mountains in 100 degrees F heat than going on some forced march that included an elephant and raft ride. You have to dress up like some Arabian camel rider to avoid becoming enveloped in the orange-red road dust that billows up into gargantuan clouds at the merest hint of disturbance.
Going up the mountains was really tricky, a slight miscalculation or misjudgement of the ruts and craters and you fall off the mountain; just as well it wasn’t pissing down. After spending a few nights with a tribe who had never seen anything like the five year old, white haired German girl brought along by eccentric parents, we decided to get back to civilisation by having a look at the Golden Triangle.
However, our waves and thanks to the gathered tribe obviously translated itself as a free lift in the opium addled mind of the local witch doctor. Unfortunately, I was the only one with any room on the back seat, and had to ride down an awesomely steep track that was bad enough without a large uncooperative mass revolving in wonder at the capabilities of this newfangled mechanical mule. It no doubt went down in their folklore.
When I'd all but given up hope he eventually got off and we bade farewell. On one occasion, when I had four hours to return the bike 50 miles away, I decided to visit a hill tribe that involved crossing a stream 14 times and a less than stable bamboo rope bridge. I made the mistake of accepting their mind warping offerings and time soon ran out. I had to hurry back, so as not to get charged for an extra day’s hire. Therefore, after a juggling and wheelie-ing display that failed to impress the kids in any way whatsoever, I raced back under the influence. It soon became great fun to see how high I could get the bike to jump without falling off. A feat that was miraculously sustained.
On returning to Chaing Rai, after being chased up the street by a canine thug, I was subjected to the most terrifying pillion ride ever, by some 15 year old Thai moron who went towards red traffic lights at maximum speed and then gave it total braking; had I a dodgy ticker I would’ve fallen off the back stone dead.
After six weeks I received the obligatory gravel rash that seems to come as part and parcel with going to this fair land, even if it occurred under the least deserving circumstances. The main cause was committing the cardinal sin of actually using the front brake, not advised by those who hire bikes out. The Japanese specimen that threw me up the road was a most aptly named Honda Wing (a 125 SOHC single - Ed) - a real flier. Despite the horrendous tyres and marble like tarmac, I was to blame for abusing the front brake in such a way as to force the girl on the back into a more intimate position. The result of such perversion was a melted forearm, bent foot peg, smashed mirrors, scraped cowling and dislodged headlamp.
A back street bike shop charged a remarkable £1 to replace, spray and knock everything back into shape. Not only was it done by a female mechanic, but also in the space of five minutes at 9pm - rather a shock after suffering under the English extortion racket for so many years.
Despite the efforts of various hospitals, that were strangely deserted of patients, septicaemia reared its ugly head. This was perhaps due to the fact that the accident occurred during the water festival when everyone throws huge quantities of stagnant green canal water at you, even if you have half your arm hanging off. It was therefore back to the big English freeze; the money had run out anyway.
The XJ was re-employed as despatch hack, but was low on compression and required new rear tyre, chain and sprockets, new fork and brake calipers. For serious riding the handling was verging on CX standards, forcing one to lift cranium, extract brain, and lock securely in the top box, before embarking on any serious racing effort. Such an event occurred when returning from Evesham up that renown hill, that’s not only extremely wide and steep but also very bendy with a superb surface. A KLR650, which at first I thought was my engine about to explode so loud was it, overtook on this hill, forcing me to follow in rapid pursuit for such a gallant challenge should not go unheeded, especially on that kind of road. The ensuing race produced such G-forces that my sense of perception was totally disorientated, allowing the KLR to get away.
Soon, the bike was sold for £420 after many dissatisfied test rides. The proceeds financing a trip to the IOM, amongst other things. As a footnote to the Thai trip, there is in the north a Land Rover driver of unquestionable psychotic outlook with absolutely no ability to drive the vehicle whatsoever. Maybe recognised if the vehicle is seen rolling backwards down a hill, after he couldn’t make it in the gear that he was in because he was too ignorant to know about high ratio gears... or, otherwise, he'll be on the wrong side of the road on blind hairpins or generally running all and sundry off the road...
Bruce Jones